


Not the Prime Minister

by ovely



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Crossover, Gen, he’s not the prime minister he’s a very naughty boy, post-2010 election, sadly only a faint allusion to gordon brown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ovely/pseuds/ovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Minister for Magic visits the wrong man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Prime Minister

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently everything I write is from Nick’s point of view.
> 
> Rated T for mild British swearing. How quaint! (Note: I am British and being sarcastic.)
> 
> [Please read the mathematical disclaimer if you're into that.](http://licornoz.livejournal.com/758.html)

Nick Clegg had barely been in his new office two hours when there was a knock at the door.

He hadn’t got much done either. Rearranged the furniture a bit—having cheerily dismissed a member of staff who had volunteered to help him—put the family photos on display, hung up a couple of campaign posters. After that he’d just fired up the computer and sat there in a haze of optimism and wariness and confusion, mostly, not yet sufficiently at ease with the local customs to lean out of the window for a smoke.

But now, there was a knock at the door.

Nick had half-risen to answer it when it opened. Expecting to see one of the various parliamentary aides who had been introduced to him earlier that day, he was surprised to see somebody he did not recognise: a tall man dressed in a splendid purple suit.

“Good afternoon, Mr Clegg,” said the man, in a slow, deep voice.

“Hello,” said Nick. “Er, who are you?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” the man replied, and before Nick had time to ask him to repeat himself, he continued, “Please, do sit down. I won’t be here long.”

Nick retreated into his chair, the strangeness of having been asked to sit down in his own office hardly occurring to him. “The thing is,” he said, as he made contact with the leather (extravagant to parliamentary standards) of the seat, “I think you’re supposed to have been announced by a member of staff, or something—if you don’t work here, that is …”. And surely the man didn’t: that purple suit—was it _velvet_?—was certainly not staff uniform. Nick may have been Deputy Prime Minister only a few days, but he’d been in the House for five years and he’d never seen a minister’s aide or anyone wearing anything like _that_.

“That’s been taken care of,” said Mr Shacklebolt. “Please let me introduce myself—“

And the man paused and frowned a little.

The pause was certainly enough to arouse some suspicion in Nick, and furthermore just about enough for him to remember correct procedure for these situations. He was the Deputy Prime Minister, for heaven’s sake! And this man was a complete stranger who’d just—just _sailed_ into his office! Of course, he would have to ask the man to show him some kind of proof of identity:

“Can I see your pass, please?” said Nick, a little hurriedly.

“There’ll be no need for that,” Mr Shacklebolt replied. “Don’t worry, I mean you no harm—“

“Your pass, _please_ ,” Nick interrupted. “I—I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave, if you can’t show me a pass—I mean, you must understand that there can be no unauthorised visitors—“

As he spoke, his hand found the button that would connect him to the intercom system and call an aide, who would surely be able to sort this out for him one way or another; he stabbed it a few times, but there was no light, and no crackle that might indicate a listening ear elsewhere. Broken! Of course the thing was bloody broken. Aware of Mr Shacklebolt’s watchful presence—which might have been a somewhat calming force had the man not just _swanned_ in there and _refused_ to obey parliamentary procedure—Nick grasped his phone with his other hand, and was about to call one of the members of staff newly programmed into the address book when he realised he had no signal.

That was certainly a first, in central London.

Nick’s was shaken from his brief despair by the sound of Mr Shacklebolt’s voice.

“I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this,” he said. “Please don’t be alarmed. I am the Minister for Magic, Mr Clegg.”

Nick made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. “The minister for _what_?” he spluttered, knowing full well that he had heard correctly and that he was trapped in his office with a madman and no way of communicating with the outside world.

“Your intercom and phone will be reenabled once I have left,” Mr Shacklebolt continued, focusing on Nick with a slightly worried expression. “I know this is hard to believe. I’m the Minister for Magic. I represent a body of people within the United Kingdom who are—shall we say, _gifted_ with certain powers that make them somewhat unusual in comparison with most of the population—”

“But magic doesn’t exist!” Nick exclaimed, his voice unexpectedly high. “Hello?!” he shouted, turning his face in the direction of the office door. “Hello, help! Please? Assistance please!”

“Your office has been temporarily soundproofed,” said Mr Shacklebolt calmly. “Please stay calm. I understand you will want me to prove my identity.”

“Well, I should bloody well think so!” said Nick, in a tone that suitably conveyed his outrage.

“Very well,” Mr Shacklebolt replied, and he took something that looked like a stick of wood out of his pocket and pointed it at a spot on Nick’s desk, whereupon there appeared a steaming teapot, two empty cups, and a faint smell of camomile. “Please, do have some tea.”

Nick felt as if he could no longer move any of his limbs.

“I’m not drinking that,” he eventually managed to mutter.

“No, of course not,” said Mr Shacklebolt, looking a little concerned. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have done comestibles …”. The stick came out again, and the teapot and cups disappeared. “Now …” he murmured thoughtfully, and pointed the stick into a corner of the room, in which there appeared a chair that looked the exact copy of Nick’s own.

This second apparition was, although Nick could barely believe it, less overwhelmingly terrifying than the first. “Right,” he said, as his gaze flickered from the chair to Mr Shacklebolt and back again, “so suppose you _are_ the Minister for—for Magic, and you just did magic then—why the bloody hell are you bothering me about it?”

“The Minister for Magic is obliged to make contact with his Muggle counterpart,” Mr Shacklebolt calmly replied, “on the occasion of either taking up his office. Literally, in your case.” He waved a hand towards a pile of papers that had not yet been sorted into their proper place, with a smile that was not returned.

Mr Shacklebolt waited until it was obvious that Nick’s apprehensive expression would not change, and continued. “The constitution of magical Britain requires me to inform you of my role, and of our position vis-a-vis Muggle—excuse me, general society … Merlin’s beard, man, you’re as white as a sheet.” His voice had lost a little of its calmness. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t have made this any easier for you. My predecessor used to insist on coming in through the fireplace, and we phased that out under the new laws, and _your_ predecessor, Brown, he seemed to take it quite well, you know. Rather liked the whisky I gave him.”

Nick was not quite sure in what sense Gordon Brown was supposed to have been his predecessor, but he had long since given up assuming that anything about this meeting would conform to normality, logic, or decency.

“Well, I’ll keep it brief, then,” said Mr Shacklebolt, still seeming concerned in the face of Nick’s continued silence. “I’m obliged to notify you if anything that happens in the wizarding world might have an effect on the general public. We’re not expecting any abnormal threat from Dark wizards at the moment—“

Nick opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but no sound emerged.

“—and we’re not intending to import any dragons in the near future, so I don’t suppose you’ll be hearing from me again. Still, our laws demand that the Minister of Magic make himself known to the Muggle Prime Minister—”

“I’m not the Prime Minister,” Nick interrupted.

There was a short silence.

“You’re not Nick Clegg?” said Mr Shacklebolt, after a while.

“I _am_ Nick Clegg,” said Nick, indignation having at last returned to him the ability to speak, “but I’m not the Prime Minister. I’m the Deputy Prime Minister.”

“I thought I had mastered the intricacies of the Muggle political system,” Mr Shacklebolt replied, “but evidently I was mistaken. Is it not the case that the leader of the party winning the most seats is elected Prime Minister, and the elected members of that party form a government? As the leader of your party, which I am given to understand is in government, shouldn’t you be Prime Minister, Mr Clegg?”

“It’s a coalition,” said Nick quietly. “We’re not the only party in government. The Conservatives won the most seats, but they couldn’t form a majority, so we’re in coalition with them.”

“Do forgive me,” said Mr Shacklebolt. “I must confess that wizarding politics isn’t at all like this. I stood for election as an individual. It’s a very nasty system, unfortunately. Well,”—he took the stick out of his pocket again—“it looks like I have an appointment elsewhere. It is David Cameron who leads the Conservatives, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Nick replied, with some degree of trepidation.

“Perfect,” said Mr Shacklebolt. “I shall be leaving you then. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

And before Nick could protest, Mr Shacklebolt was pointing his stick right at the middle of his forehead.

* * *

Nick awoke with a jolt. Had he been asleep? That election must have taken it out of him, and it was certainly hot in here. He stood up and went to open the window.

As he crossed the room, he noticed a chair that definitely hadn’t been there last time he’d looked. Somebody must have brought that in while he was asleep—good god, that wouldn’t give the best impression. Hopefully they’d forget about it, or at the very least, not tell any of the other new Cabinet members. Particularly not the Tories.

Returning to his desk, he heard from across the corridor the faint sound of David Cameron’s voice exclaiming in outraged laughter, “The minister for _what_?” Sounds like an interesting conversation, Nick thought to himself, before returning to his unpacking.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a crisis about whether it’s Minister _for_ or _of_ Magic. But apparently it can be either? Also, let’s pretend the tea was just transported from somewhere else and that I haven’t violated Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
> 
> And thanks for reading!


End file.
